Lay Me Down
by stripeypirate
Summary: "How can you leave me here, Sammy? Alone, with him?" In which the Winchester family is falling apart at the seams. (Warnings inside)
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **Story is complete (~12k words total, obviously future chapters are much longer), so I'll post every few days. If anyone's been wondering why my other updates have been taking forever, this little sucker may be the reason why. Sam is fifteen, Dean is nineteen.

**TRIGGER WARNINGS: physical abuse, themes of suicide, a bit of self-harm. This ain't a happy fic, folks.**

That being said, feedback is my lifeblood. Reviews are treasured, and if you have any further questions/concerns regarding the triggers feel free to message me!

Beta'd by Mikey- you have my eternal gratitude.

* * *

_Now I lay me down to sleep_

_I pray the Lord my soul to keep_

_If I should die before I wake_

_I pray the Lord my soul to take_

-18th Century prayer

The single bare bulb flickers and hums overhead, casting a weary glow over cracked porcelain and dingy, yellowing tiles. A cockroach scuttles behind the toilet, away from prying eyes and crushing feet. Sam stands, head bowed over the rusty sink, staring fixedly at the contents in his cupped palm.

The stark white pills seem magnified in the confines of the bathroom, their innocuous appearance twisted under harsh shadows. He tilts his hand, feeling the slim capsules roll over the bumps and ridges of his fingers. He abruptly flattens out before they can reach the tip. Sam squints at the drain- a black gaping maw staring back at him. He imagines angling his wrist ever so slightly, sending the pills tumbling down, falling effortlessly through the pipes. He can see them flow to sea, eventually eroded to nothing by the salt water.

And he would walk away. Back into the bedroom, taking care not to disturb the salt line on his way. Slide in next to Dean, who would probably snort in his sleep and roll over. Wake up the next morning to shouting that indicated Training, or silence that indicated Hangover. Sam shakes his head, closing his fingers protectively around the capsules. It had taken him long enough- faking injuries or playing up those that already existed. Sequestering one by one until he'd built up a large enough dose. Sam smiles bitterly to himself. If anything, he's good at research.

A noise from the next room startles him. He freezes, listening. A grunt. A rustle of sheets. A long sigh. Silence. Sam lets out the breath he's been holding, feeling icy sweat roll down his back. He reminds himself that he doesn't have much time. If John, or worse, Dean walked in… He only has one shot.

The pills are growing sticky in his fist. He wipes at his face with his free hand, angrily scrubbing away the tears. His mouth is so dry he doesn't even know if he can swallow. The pills look up at him expectantly. We can help you, they whisper in small, plaintive voices. Sam tips his head back like he's taking a shot, dumping the lot in. He takes a few small sips of water to ease their passage down his throat before sitting down on the edge of the bathtub, waiting for darkness to sweep over him.


	2. Chapter 2

The world is looping and spinning. _Just like that ride at the county fair, _Sam thinks. He can see the colors too. Pinpricks of light from the other attractions exploding across his vision. _I had a corndog for the first time. Dean won me a stuffed animal. I got sick –_ Sam can smell bile, the ripe staleness tickling the back of his throat. His head is pressed against something hard, but Sam can only see in swirls. _Are they going to stop the ride? _He wonders dimly. He hears muffled shouting from somewhere far, far away.

Sam is suddenly aware of the pain in his stomach. A living thing pulsing and clawing its way out. He thinks he feels hands clutching his shoulders, but sensation has dwindled down to pins and needles. _Why is it so cold in the summer?_

More muffled speech. Sam opens his mouth, tries to tell them he might be dying but he's just too tired. Rough fingers pry open his eyes. His head is filled with a searing light. Sam lets himself fall forward, seeking the comfort of cooling shadows. More hands, grasping, tugging at him. He's naked now, shivering.

Sam strikes out blindly at them, the motion sending more waves of dizziness crashing discordantly against his skull. He's held down, trapped by bleary faces that peer down through a white haze. And then he knows nothing at all.

* * *

The familiar scent of stale air and disinfectant, soft footsteps punctuated by beeping monitors. His throat is on fire. He hears a throat-clearing cough to his left and pictures John and Dean folded into stained plastic chairs, letting an uncomfortable silence stretch like the Grand Canyon between them. If he opens his eyes he will see them, clutching coffees and peering through bloodshot rims. Sam searches longingly for the space where his head wasn't pounding, where he didn't have to _think_. If he opens his eyes there will be questions he doesn't want to answer. Maybe he can spend the rest of his life pretending, locked in a sightless limbo and eventually everyone will give up and go away.

A courteous "Good morning Mr. Hinkle," in the clipped tones of a doctor, followed by a grunt from his father. Sam can ignore a gentle shake and an unfamiliar voice calling his name. The doctor is insistent though, and Sam is forced into reality when he drags his knuckles over the tender skin on his collar bone.

"Hey Sam." The doctor speaks softly, as if his words might cause his young patient to crack and crumble into dust. He looks young for a doctor, with neatly trimmed dark hair and gunmetal grey eyes that are now soft with sympathy.

"How are you feeling today?"

"Fine." Sam keeps his eyes trained on the young man's stethoscope. It's blue and sways slightly whenever the doctor moves. "Can I go home now?"

He hesitates, casting a nervous glance behind him. "Sam, we need to discuss what happened first. I'm concerned about your safety. Would you be more comfortable if your family left the room?"

Sam peers around the doctor. John is staring at him impassively, hands resting on his knees. To an outsider he might appear calm and collected, but Sam can see the danger in his stiffness. Dean is slouched next to him, eyes hooded and unreadable. He doesn't meet Sam's gaze.

Sam shrugs, pouring all his strength into keeping his voice even. "It's all right. Nothing much to tell. I get these headaches sometimes, and um the other night was really bad. I could barely see. It was an accident… sir," he mumbles, focusing on his fingernails.

The doctor steeples his fingers and dips his head in an attempt to make eye contact. He breathes out slowly, proceeding with caution.

"Sam, you nearly stopped breathing. We had to put a tube down your throat to protect your airway and other down through your nose to pump your stomach." Dean flinches. "To cause that much damage you would have had to swallow-"

"The hell are you implying?" John barks, causing the young man to jump slightly. He eases himself menacingly out of his chair.

"Sir, please, I know this must be hard for you, but-" He raises his clipboard in front of him, a flimsy defense against John's wrath. Sam wants to laugh, but his throat is too sore.

"I didn't raise my sons to be cowards," John spits out, clenching and unclenching his fists. "My son said it was an accident, or was your head too far up your ass to hear him?"

The doctor swallows with an audible _click_ but miraculously doesn't back down. "Sir, I also noticed some bruises in various stages of healing on your son's back and chest, along with some unusual scarring. Could you explain how they got there?"

John's nostrils flare and Sam wonders for a moment if he wasn't going to drop him right there on the glossy white floor. "I don't like your tone," he states finally. "Sammy's an active kid. Plays a lot of sports, roughhouses with his older brother. He gets banged up every now and again."

_Ghost, ghost, skinwalker, sparring, vamp, Dad on a bad day. Which is most days. _

"I'm afraid this is all a big misunderstanding. Now, is he clear to leave?" John's voice is flat and deadly.

The doctor shifts uncomfortably. "Medically, yes. However, in cases like these it's customary that the patient undergo a psychiatric evaluation before they're discharged…"

"Bullshit! Bring me the damn paperwork. We're getting outta here." John runs a tired hand through his hair, as if exhausted by his own anger.

The doctor clears his throat. "Yes, that can be arranged. However, I'm required by law to report this incident to Child Protection Services, meaning-"

"Did I fucking stutter?" John raises an eyebrow and the young man beats a hasty retreat, pausing to cast a pitying glance at Sam before he strides down the hall. Sam decides that he hates him.

* * *

Sam lies curled in the backseat of the Impala. Neither John nor Dean has spoken a word to him since they'd skulked out of the hospital under the hostile stares of the nurses. Sam could feel their whispers pushing at his back. He wipes an imaginary speck of dust off the window, admiring the streak his finger leaves behind.

"I swear to God, if you ever pull a stunt like that again…" John lets the unspoken threat hang heavily in the air. Sam can feel it coiling around him, binding his ankles and wrists together. Chaining him to this car, this life. John jams the keys violently in the ignition and peels out of the parking lot without looking back. Sam peaks out the window, ignoring the heat of Dean's stares in the rearview mirror. He feels empty. Like a grinning jack-o-lantern, his organs scooped up with a spoon, insides made smooth and hollow. He picks idly at the residual tape left over from his IV. _I'll have to try harder next time. _


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** Thanks to everyone who has reviewed/followed/favorited so far (guest reviewers in particular, to whom I cannot respond in person)!

* * *

Eight hours and two states later, Sam finds himself facing the peeling yellow paint of their newest residence. He sets his duffle down on the floor, taking care to avoid the malodorous black stain that lurks in the space between his side of the bed and the wall. Sam wonders if anyone has ever died in this room. The thought sends a morbid thrill through him as he imagines strangers fingering pawnshop guns or drawing up one last warm bath.

John shouts something unintelligible from the kitchen, which Sam chooses to ignore. He stretches out gingerly on sheets that reek faintly of piss and mold. The weight of his failure presses down, flattening him into the bed. Sam remembers something he heard on the radio once, about old ladies who just give up and die after their husbands are gone because they simply don't want to live anymore. He closes his eyes and concentrates very hard on his heart, the ghastly swishing of blood in his ears. He thinks he can feel the incessant drumming begin to slow.

"Dinner's ready, Sam. Didn't you hear Dad?" Dean stand in the doorway, arms folded. He slumps against the frame, choosing to look at the space directly above Sam's head rather than his face.

Sam glares at the older boy, his focus disrupted. "I'm not hungry."

Dean eyes slide imperceptibly downwards, his expression a stormy mix that Sam can't quite comprehend. "We have a hunt tomorrow."

"So?"

"So Dad needs you sharp," he mutters, a muscle in his jaw twitching. "He needs both of us. In top condition."

Sam sighs and rolls onto his side, reaching over to stroke the fringe on the curtains. He stopped listening at "hunt".

Dean pauses, letting a minute stretch endlessly before he turns. "Fine, go ahead and starve yourself." His voice is gritty as sandpaper. "Just don't be surprised if Dad comes in here and jams a goddamn tube down your throat." Dean slams the door hard enough to jar the knob loose. It hangs brokenly, staring out at Sam like an avulsed eyeball.

He counts to ten after Dean's footsteps retreat down the hall before slipping out of bed.

* * *

John grunts at him before turning back to his paper, circling, highlighting, and making cryptic notes in the margins. Sam slides into a chair next to Dean, poking a fork experimentally into a plate of hamburger helper.

"I think we're up against a demon, boys." John takes a hearty swig from his constant companion, Jim Beam. A single amber tear drips down the side. "He's a bad sonofabitch so we gotta go in swinging. Killed three people in town already."

Sam nods noncommittally, feeling a coil of anger choke off what little appetite he did have.

"Sounds great," he can't keep the sarcasm out of his voice. John narrows his eyes. The air in the room is stretched tight like an overinflated balloon. John goes back to his research and Dean lets out an imperceptible sigh of relief.

"You need this, Sam," John mutters without looking up. "We gotta put an end to all this moaning and groaning," he glances pointedly at Sam's full plate, "not eating shit, skulking off doing who knows what. A hunt'll toughen you up."

"And if that doesn't work?" Sam knows he's testing the waters, can feel Dean stiffen beside him. The balloon is shifting, straining.

John's head snaps up to face him, eyes hard. "It better. You need to learn to deal with your problems like a man." He rises, taking a long swallow as he does so, and walks around the table towards the couch. He gives Sam a casual smack to the back of the head as he passes. A warning. Dean is fidgeting beside him now, drumming his fingers on the table, the nervous, jerky rhythm fueling Sam's swelling irritation. He can feel it rising inside of him, an emotional tidal wave of fear and frustration that threatens to sweep him out to sea.

"Yeah, that sounds real healthy. Drinking out of the bottle already, _sir_?" Sam can't keep the venom out of his voice.

_Blam. _The balloon bursts.

This is full-on defiance, the cardinal sin of the Winchester household. Sam barely hears Dean's strangled gasp as John's fist connects with the side of his face.

His head is ringing. John's rough hand is cupping the back of his skull, pressing their foreheads together, whisky fumes rolling over in a noxious cloud. He's speaking but his words slip and slide out of Sam's hearing. He can see Dean hovering over John's shoulder, so pale his freckles stand out like constellations. His lips are moving too, slow-motion.

"I can't… hear you!" Sam gasps, raising his voice for maximum insolence. The anger is awake inside him now, burning white-hot behind the pain.

John reaches back for a second strike. This time Sam feels a warm wetness spilling down his chin. He grins, feeling his lip split a little further. Heat is pumping through his veins; pure rage-filled adrenaline. He imagines his blood is black, polluted with every hit and sideways glance, every cold stare and sleepless night. Sam pictures it surging through his arm, hearing John's nose _crunch_ with the force of the blow. Instead, his mouth fills with blood, soft and coppery. Sam spits, leaving a fine spray on John's face and neck. For the first time in weeks, he feels truly alive.

John's eyes pop, the vein on his temple jumping furiously. But then Dean's there, grabbing his arm, whispering desperately into his ear.

Sound is beginning to filter back now. "Don't forget… Hunt… We need him… Lie down." Sam is shoved back, hissing as his side connects with the corner of the Formica tabletop. Once again, hands are holding him, cupping the back of his head, gently guiding him to the floor. The tension has left the room, his body. He feels like a flag that was caught in a hurricane, when the wind suddenly stopped.

"I gotcha Sammy, you're safe." A muffled voice above him. Exhaustion.

* * *

"Sam this has got to stop." Dean's voice floats over the darkness, cutting through the dull throbbing sensation he feels from head to toe. It pulses along with his stubborn heartbeat, bringing blood to swell up his face and bruise his ribs.

"You don't have to try and defend me you know." It comes out more scathing than he intended, but his throat is stiff and clogged with unshed tears.

The bed dips behind him as Dean sits down. The bedside lamp flicks on.

"That's not what I mean. Here, lemme see your face. I got an ice pack."

"Just leave me alone."

The air temperature in the room drops. Sam hears a ragged sigh, almost a sob.

"I'm not an idiot you know."

Sam ducks his head under the pillow. A childish move, but it has the desired effect on Dean. A few minutes later the Impala roars to life and the elder Winchester vanishes into the night.

* * *

The cool air whipping in through the half-open windows acts as background white noise to counter the Zeppelin blaring from the speakers. Dean clutches the steering wheel like a drowning man would clutch a buoy. The air is full of something heavy and oppressive and wrong. He can feel it in his lungs, a squeezing his ribcage.

_The soft moan drifting through his consciousness. In a disjointed state of half-sleep he wonders for a moment if the sound is coming from his own mouth. The bed next to him is cold_. _Sam's side. The moaning continues, unvarying like a tired mosquito, so faint in the background that he almost forgets about it. But his skin prickles, itches with a strange electricity. John's hulking form doesn't stir._ _He slips out of bed, padding on threadbare carpet. The bathroom door is closed._

Dean pulls into a dive just off the turnpike, where more motorcycles than cars litter the parking lot. Tries to ignore his sweaty shaking hands. A large stuffed deer head presides sternly over the crowd within. The bartender doesn't give his fake ID a second glance.

_Sam sprawled on the tile, vomit pooling under his chin, eyes staring blankly upward. _

The first bitter shot hits his tongue and Dean decides he doesn't feel like drinking anymore, but he's paid for three so he tips back the others in quick succession, trying to ignore the buzz in his head that has nothing to do with alcohol.

_A flurry of white coats, anxious voices. Too many questions. What pills? how many how long ago… history of depression, they blend together in a cocktail of noise. They won't let him near Sam, though he's starting to wake up a little. Pale and panicked, writhing away from unfamiliar touch._

Dean wanders over to the pool table, watches a few games and decides he could make a pretty profit hustling in this joint. He throws a few games before walking off with an easy fifty bucks. He could go for more but the money feels grimy in his hands, and he still can't shake the restlessness that twitches his lips and grinds his teeth.

_Sam's eyes staring at him from the hospital bed. A dare. To speak up, to confront him. Reveal what he's done. Force John to see. But Dean's mouth is full of sand._

He needs to get back to the motel. Sam's asleep when he slides beneath the sheets next to him. Dean stays awake listening to his brother's soft breathing.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** I'd like to start this off with a HUGE round of applause for Mikey who powered through and beta'd the rest of the story in the middle of finals week. And he never once tried to bite my head off (though I'm sure it crossed his mind). I really struggled with where I wanted to end this chapter- originally it was going to be longer but I think the story flows better this way, so I broke it into two separate chunks. Let me know if you like it (or don't)! ;D

* * *

Sam allows himself to float away during the hunt. He watches himself from on high; a pale, trembling thing clutching a flask. John didn't tell them that the demon was possessing a mother of three.

She hisses and howls as the salt eats into her flesh, and holy water raises lines of steam on her body. Then she begins to laugh and curse, foul words pouring out of her mouth like flies. Her children huddle in a corner as she condemns them, hates them, crucifies them with her lips. John stands firm, reciting the exorcism with grim precision.

When the last of the smoke clears, the woman lies dead; blood trickling from her ears and nose. John immediately turns on his heel and heads for the Impala. The kids stare after him, the youngest one begins to wail, a thin, piercing sound. Dean turns the color of spoiled milk. He reaches a hand out towards the mother, like he wants to brush the hair out of her face.

Sam watches himself sink to the floor, his knees unable to bear the weight any longer. He carries that woman on his shoulders now. They all do. He can see it in Dean's stooped posture and John's aching back. Dean hauls him to his feet and heads out the door.

John's already drinking by the time they reach the motel, one arm slung over the steering wheel, the other cupping the bottle.

* * *

Knives are nice. Unpretentious, surgical. Sam can't believe he hasn't thought of this before. Silent but effective, much easier to obtain than medication in the Winchester household. He draws a thin red line across his arm, a practice run. Sam admires the stark contrast of the red against his skin. Pale blue veins, criss-crossing just underneath the fragile surface. He's surprised how little it hurts. Another line, this one deeper. Another small thrill low in his belly. _Closer_.

The door explodes inwards. Dean stumbles in, carried forward by his own momentum. Sam jerks his arms back, instinctively trying to hide them. Dean grabs his wrist, face stony.

Words shrivel and die on Sam's tongue. He watches dumbly as Dean grabs a towel, applying pressure. Sam is gradually becoming aware of the sting; a slow fire racing up his forearms.

"Please don't tell Dad." Pathetic, but it's all he can think to say.

"Passed out on the couch," Dean grunts. He guides Sam into a sitting position on the toilet. He's breathing heavily, panting for air like he's been chased by a wendigo. Muscles so tense he's trembling.

"Are you mad at me?" Sam watches him warily from underneath his bangs. Dean clenches his jaw, but doesn't say anything.

"It's not your business anyways. It's my life," Sam mumbles.

The mirror cracks viciously, pieces of glass sliding down to shatter in the sink. Dean curses, shaking out his bleeding knuckles. Sam flinches, startled by the sudden violence of the act.

"Is that what you really think?" Dean's shouting, his voice thick and garbled with emotion. "That you can just turn out the lights and everything will be okay? Yeah, sure it'll be easy for you." The last sentence has a nasty bite. Dean begins pacing, only a few steps back and forth across the tiny bathroom, running his hands through his hair.

"What the hell am I supposed to do, huh?" His voice breaks, tears flowing freely now, though he scrubs furiously at his eyes. "How can you leave me here, Sammy? Alone? With _him?" _

"You could've left first, Dean." The words drop like pebbles down a well. Sam feels a great hole widening inside of him. He's pushing, sticking his thumbs in it and stretching the edges, testing to see how far he can go before he tears open. "The day you turned eighteen, you were free."

"Well maybe I don't abandon my family." Then anger is back now, flaring in his eyes. Sam takes comfort in this. Watching Dean cry had been disconcertingly alien.

"What does that even mean?" The scorn in Sam's voice is tempered by fatigue. "Look at us! We're dysfunctional even by Hunting standards. Dad's got you on such a short leash that you can't even see-"

"Leave him out of it." His tone is clipped, no room for argument.

"You're unbelievable." Sam squirms away from his brother's ministrations, his back digging into the cold porcelain. "I know I'm a freak Dean, but the least you could do is admit that maybe Dad beating the shit out of me every other day has something to do with it." He's breathing hard now, like a cornered animal, subconsciously scraping his toes against the floor.

Dean kneels down, tilting his head slightly in an attempt to look Sam in the eye.

"That's not what I'm saying, Sammy," he sounds like he's choking on broken glass.

"Oh yeah?" The younger boy stares determinedly at scuffed wallpaper depicting fish and seashells splayed on a light blue background.

"Look, Dad's an asshole."

Sam snorts, noting how Dean lowers his voice at the cuss. As if the man himself could overhear them. "But he's trying, okay? Dealing with all the supernatural crap ain't easy. And maybe it doesn't seem like it, but he needs us."

"He needs _you_," Sam mutters darkly. "I'm fed up with all this bullshit about defending Dad when really you're just too afraid to stand up to him."

Dean opens and closes his mouth a few times; in perfect imitation of one of the stupid fish gazing blankly back at Sam. "You're probably gonna need stitches," he says at last. "I'll go grab the kit."

* * *

The light was seeping in despite closed lids, prodding his blurry brain with razor-sharp fingers. A bird trills. Right inside his ear, by the sound of it. Groping blindly about his head, he realizes he is lying in a confined area. _Not bed. _His fingers brush against something cool and cylindrical. _Water. _Cracking his eyes, he can see Dean bent over something on the stove. _Thought it smelled like bacon. _His stomach growls uneasily and he must've groaned because Dean turns around, flicking some hot grease off the end of his spatula in the process. It sizzles sickeningly on the countertop.

"You're awake." The bags under his son's eyes say that he hasn't slept all night.

John grunts, looking at the clock. "It's eleven already? Shit." An elephant is doing jumping jacks inside his skull. "Hope you and Sam started your training already."

Dean freezes, clearing his throat uncomfortably. He turns back to the frying pan, sliding the crispy strips of bacon onto a plate.

"Dean!" John barks, wincing at the subsequent stab of pain behind his temples.

Dean jumps to attention, the plate skittering across the countertop. "Sorry sir! Sam… Wasn't feeling well last night. I let him sleep in. I'll do his exercises on top of mine, sir."

"That's not the point. Sam's never gonna get any stronger if you're doing his push-ups for him. 'Sides," the thunder rolled into his voice, "you saw that woman last night. She couldn't do a damn thing to defend herself. Or her kids. You want Sam to grow up weak like that? Prey for some fugly out there?"

_Maybe if someone had done this for me, we wouldn't be in this mess. Why can't you stubborn fucks see that?_

"Yessir," Dean whispers. "I'll get him now."

John gnashes his teeth. If the kid was still genuinely asleep, maybe something was up. He considered giving him a break, just this once, but quickly squashes the idea. _He's gotta learn how to push through. What if he's sick on the job? A vamp won't go easy on you because you have the sniffles._

Sam shuffles in, hair still mussed. Dean trails after him, hovering anxiously over his shoulder.

John notes the bruise that creeps like a stain across his son's cheek, complimented by a lower lip swollen to twice its normal size.

_I did that._

John can feel his fists curling instinctively. He wants to reach over and rip off the damaged skin, tear it from Sam's memory, make him whole again.

_How could you make me do that?_

Suddenly John is aware of the film that the alcohol left on his teeth, his unwashed hair hanging limply across his forehead, the dried blood crusting under his fingernails.

"Start with five miles," he growls at Sam, who watches him with hooded eyes. "I don't want you in my sight right now."

Sam flinches, two spots of red forming on his cheeks. His breath huffs a little, before he nods jerkily. "Good. I don't want to be here either."

John lunges to his feet, but the sudden movement sends his head spinning in a kaleidoscopic arc. He feels Dean grasp his shoulder. By the time the room is still again, Sam is out the door.

"Take it easy," Dean soothes, though his voice is shaking.

John brushes him off and staggers to the shower. He can feel himself sliding already. Right into that ditch he digs himself with a bottle of whisky.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: **Extra long chapter, my dears! Like every other writer in this fandom, I couldn't pass up a chance to create my own version of the "Flagstaff Incident"

* * *

Sam runs until his chest is heaving for breath and sweat obscures his vision. His legs are numb, clumsy with pins and needles. He stops at a street corner, cursing the long sleeves he's worn to hide the bulky bandages.

For one glorious moment Sam imagines sticking out his thumb and heading for the freeway, leaving this crap town in a cloud of dirt and exhaust. But John Winchester didn't earn his reputation as a tracker by letting monsters slip through his fingers, let alone teenage boys. If Sam truly wanted to escape, he'd have to go somewhere his father couldn't follow.

_How could you leave me here Sammy? Alone…_ Dean complicated matters. It hadn't really occurred to Sam what would happen to his older brother if he succeeded.

_Flagstaff, Arizona. Sam had been eleven years old, on the cusp of realizing the dysfunction of the Winchester household. _

_"How long until Dad gets back again?" He asked, a whine creeping into his voice. The air conditioner in the motel was broken again, leaving every surface in the room covered in a slick layer of sweat. _

_"I told you, he just called. Three or four day, tops," Dean grunted from his sprawled position on the couch, a limp washcloth draped over his shoulders while the TV droned in the background. _

_Sam sighed, "Well do you think I could go to the library? _

_"You know the drill, Sammy. Lockdown," Dean growled. _

_"Dad wouldn't have to know. I'd come right back, I promise! You could come too; I bet it's nice and cool in there," He finished hurriedly. _

_Dean turned to him with a glower and any further arguments Sam had shriveled on his tongue. _

Sam slows his pace, walking until he finds a playground with a water fountain. An elderly woman sits on a bench while two young children, a boy and a girl, frolic around the rickety slide. Sam watches them as he gulps eagerly.

The old woman notices his him. Her eyes widen and he calls the youngsters to her side, murmuring in low tones to them as she casts suspicious glances his way. _I bet I look real pretty, don't I? Better tell them not to do drugs, to stay in school or they'll end up like me, right? _

Sam pulls back his swollen lips, baring his teeth and contorting his busted face into a snarl. The woman flinches and turns quickly around. Sam grins sardonically at her retreating back. It was oddly gratifying to give her what she expected.

_He'd promised he'd get the research done. Ms. Julian had divided the class into groups and assigned a project on the solar system. Each group was to write a paper about one of the planets and present the findings to the class. _

_Sam had immediately volunteered to tackle the paper by himself, with the sinking feeling that he wouldn't be around long enough to finish the performance. He hoped that Ms. Julian might grade his portion separately so that he could move on to the next school with straight As on his transcript. His classmates had looked at him shrewdly, trying to determine if the new guy was a saboteur or just a suck-up. They relented after Sam promised to deliver the goods that Monday, leaving them plenty of time to complete the project. _

_"Do we even have any USEFUL books on Jupiter?" Sam called exasperatedly, throwing aside a stack of complex lunar charts used to track werewolves. The Winchester library included several tomes going into detail about astrology and the significance of the alignment of various heavenly bodies, but was rather skimpy on information his teacher would consider "factual". _

_"I dunno, maybe you should look up Uranus," Dean drawled from the living room. _

_"You're not funny," Sam spat. "This is serious! I told everyone I'd write the paper." _

_ "Why do you care so much anyway? We'll be gone, so it won't be your problem."_

_Sam slammed a hefty volume on Greek Gods on the table, tears of frustration threatening. Dean would never understand how important school was to him. Neither would John. He alone in his stupid family ached for knowledge beyond the occult and the creepy-crawlie._

* * *

_Later that night, when Dean's gentle snores filled the room, Sam crept from his bed. The air was unbearably thick since Dean had insisted on leaving the windows shut, so as not to risk disturbing the salt line. Still, Sam felt chills race up and down his spine at the thought of sneaking into the library, wandering the corridors built of shelves all alone, cloaked in darkness. He could read all night, leaving only a single book placed carefully in the middle of the room to alert the librarians that someone had been there. He would be like one of those dashing bandits in the Westerns that Dean liked so much._

_The air outside was a little cooler, a light breeze ruffling his hair. A quick bus ride and a three-block stroll later, Sam arrived at the squat brick building that was the East Flagstaff Community Library. Making quick work of the lock, Sam slipped inside. _

_As the morning sunlight began to filter in through the windows, Sam had an epiphany. What if he didn't go home at all? He had a wad of cash in his pocket, enough to pay for a few nights at a really sleazy motel. The rest he could work for, maybe even hustle pool if he had to. Sam pictured himself leaning nonchalantly against his stick, fast-talking the unsteady patrons like he'd seen Dean do so many times._

_ The thought filled him with giddy exhilaration. He was drunk with freedom; no one to tell him he had to uproot, move schools, or hunt ever again. Maybe he could make some friends here, go to middle school and then high school with them. And then in some far-distant future, attend college; that mythical institution that everyone else said was a beacon of knowledge, but Dean insisted was a place solely for drinking and getting laid by "nerdy chicks". _

_Sam thumbed through the most detailed book on Jupiter as he left the library. He'd decided to keep it as a souvenir, though a few crumpled bills were left on the librarian's desk to ease his conscience. Grabbing a quick bite at a local 24-hour joint, he noticed a scruffy dog pacing anxiously up and down the street. The cashier shook his head, "Damn mutt's been doing that for days now. I should call animal control before it bites someone."_

_"I think it's a golden retriever actually." The cashier squinted at him and Sam realized he should he should keep his mouth shut to avoid suspicion. _

_"How old are you anyway, kid?" _

_"Sixteen," Sam hedged, trying to make his voice sound lower. The cashier shrugged, nonplussed. _

_"Yeah, and I'm a monkey's uncle. However," he handed Sam his food, rolled up neatly in a paper bag, "it ain't my problem. Watch yourself."_

_Sam scurried out the door, cursing himself for being so stupid. The dog followed him, cautiously wagging his tail. Sam pulled out a breakfast sandwich, tossing the sausage onto the sidewalk where it was promptly wolfed down._

_"C'mon boy, let's go find ourselves a place to stay."_

* * *

_Three days later, it all came crashing down. John burst through the door in a hail of splinters. _

_"Sammy!" He roared, his hands twitching on the trigger of his sawed-off. Sam sat frozen on the bed, heart knocking furiously in his chest. Dean raced to his side. _

_"Where are they? Did they hurt you?" Restless anger radiated off his brother as he ran his hands up and down Sam's arms, over his torso, through his hair, as if he couldn't believe he was in one piece. "I swear to God, I'll-"_

_"Get away from him, Dean." John raised the gun pointedly in Sam's direction. _

_ "Do it now!" He barked. Dean blanched, a large purple discoloration on his cheekbone standing out starkly in contrast. He slid off the bed and edged toward the bathroom door as John nodded at him. Winchester code for "check the rest of the rooms". _

_"We don't know what he is yet," John snarled as he drew a flask of holy water from his jacket. _

* * *

_That was the worst part about Flagstaff_, Sam thinks, kicking a rock absentmindedly as he begins to wander back to the motel. Not the silver and iron knives, or begging John not to shoot Bones once Dean had discovered him curled whimpering under the sink. Not even the broken collarbone he'd received; punishment for turning up safe and sound.

No, it was definitely the look in his father's eyes when he'd uttered those words. Anger yes, but with fear dancing underneath the surface. A fear that had been lurking in John for as long as Sam could remember, but was crystallized and clarified in that moment.

_He thinks I'm a monster. Some sick, corrupted freak. He hates me because I killed mom. _

But Sam knows that somehow, it runs deeper than that. _Maybe he's afraid that one day I'll come to hate him back. He can't control me like he can Dean. _

His arms are beginning to throb again, itching from the dried sweat trapped by the bandages. He rubs them together to avoid scratching, wincing as the stitches catch slightly. The motel comes into view, the "Vacancy" sign flickering down a block cramped with convenience stores, bars, and other living arrangements in various stages of decay.

His thoughts fly unwillingly back to Flagstaff; Dean holding him in the backseat as they drove to the emergency room, supporting his arm in an attempt to keep pressure off the break.

_Don't worry Sammy, I gotcha_ _. It's gonna be okay_. That phrase, repeated over and over again over the years. Dean's mantra.

As Sam approaches their room, always on the first floor, he notices his older brother watching out the window, his mouth turned down in an absent pout of worry. Waiting.

_Fuck. _Sam feels the lid click shut on his cage. _My leaving would kill him. _

* * *

The house grows quiet after Sam leaves, save for the faint splashing of the shower. Dean feels the silence growing like a living thing, composed of words unsaid and gestures misinterpreted. It wraps around his neck, stuffs itself down his throat until he can't breathe.

Dean paces. He cleans his weapons. Then John's. Then Sam's. The smell of oil and the solid, comfortable weight of the gun in his hands create a sense of normalcy.

_We're going to be fine. _

But the sick, nagging feeling in his gut says otherwise.

_Bright sticky blood. On his hands, the tiles, Sam's clothes. So different than the wounds earned on hunts; the ones that oozed in the dim interior of the Impala, coated with dirt and sweat and monster guts. Future battle scars, telling a story. That blood was righteous, pure. _

_The cuts on Sam's arms had leaked inky black in the darkened bathroom. Sinister. Wrong. Making Dean feel so helpless and ugly inside he wanted to puke. _

Dean tries to talk to Sam in his head, creating and aborting conversations he knows will never take place. He doesn't know how to reach out to his little brother anymore. He's outgrown hugs and band-aids and silly faces.

_When did that change?_

Sam's a different person now; a moody, fickle stranger inhabiting his brother's body. Building invisible walls that Dean just can't seem to get around.

But he's hurting, begging for help in his own stubborn way and Dean can't do a goddamn thing.

His heart twists, folds itself into a tiny knot and burrows into the center of his chest. Hiding from his head.

_Am I really that powerless around Dad? _Sam's words from the night before echoing back with cutting precision. Obedience was his strength, his purpose. _If I hadn't listened and done everything Dad asked, when he asked it, we wouldn't have made it this far. He needs me on his side. _

But there is something else too, as much as Dean tries to shy away from it, banish the treasonous idea from his mind: Fear.

Dean's world ended the night of the fire. Violently uprooted, ripped from his home and cast into a place filled with darkness and shadow. Where blood dripped from claw and fangs and smirking wolves in sheep's clothing were waiting to gobble him up. Where only his father could protect him.

And Dean would always love him for that. Despite the beatings and the words that cut like daggers. _He taught me how to keep you safe, Sammy. _

_Except now_ Dean realizes with an ugly clarity, _I guard him from John more often than the monsters._

* * *

John hears the muffled banging and Dean's relieved exclamation that announces Sam's return. _About goddamn time. _

The pounding in his head has receded to a dull buzz, allowing him to comb through local papers for six nearby counties in search of a job.

Nothing.

_Maybe we should move again. Head out west. A change in scenery might help things. Of course Sam wouldn't like that…_

John rubs his temples as the pain spikes at the thought of yet another confrontation. _Damned kid can't see what's good for him. _

He breathes deep, trying to quell the red fury curling around the edges of his vision. He needs a drink.

But to reach the kitchen would involve facing his sons, who from the sound of things, had managed to jimmy the TV antenna into receiving a signal.

Which would mean Dean's face paling, unconsciously straitening his back for Daddy the Drill Sergeant. Sam slouching down in opposition, jaw clenched, staring at the floor.

_And God help me if he said anything about the drinking… _John slams the newspaper down in an unsatisfying flutter of pages.

_It wasn't his fault_, the shrinking rational part of his mind whispers. But the room of roasting flesh, the blackened figure huddled over his son _stroking his cheek_ still plagues him at night. Waking with smoke in his lungs and ash in his mouth.

_Sammy hadn't cried. _

John paces the room restlessly, fingers twitching.

Slam. His knuckles sting satisfactorily and the wall stares back, impassive.

Again. He's trying to ignore the signs. That Sam's changing. The blood taking hold. _Dean can never know. _

His fist beats a steady tempo, working away at the plaster. He's hiding the demon's identity from the boys. A mystery monster that killed that mother is better in the long run. _Keep 'em in the dark, keep 'em in line. _He can teach them first, let them learn the pain and exhaustion and rewards of hunting.

Protect them. _Keep an eye on Sam. _

The memories of Flagstaff still raise beads of sweat on his forehead. _Thought the demon'd come to collect. _

Because John had seen the blood smeared on his infant son's lips, the way he'd looked up at Yellow Eyes with silent trust.

_It's only a matter of time. _

Mood swings, outbursts, defiance. All behaviors of someone possessed. _Or with spoiled blood pumping through their veins. _

John doesn't want to hurt Sam, but he can't ignore the filth inside him either. Letting his guard down like that could mean disaster for everyone.

_Oh Mary, where are you?_

He tries to picture her smile, feel her soft skin under his arms, but all he can here is a sharp, accusing voice. _What have you done to my boys? You think I would have wanted this? _

"I needed to keep them safe," John whispers aloud.

He sits back on his haunches, the dull throbbing of his hand slowly demanding his attention. Lets the sick self-loathing wash over him. The customary flagellation of a man too stubborn to change but too afraid to continue in his ways.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: **I think it's about time for an epic Winchester chick flick moment, don't you?

* * *

Sam flops bonelessly on the couch, pushing his sweaty hair out of his face. He'd like to go shower, which doesn't involve thinking or talking. Just slick skin freed from oppressive sleeves and the steady rhythm of falling water, beating a cool tattoo across his aching back.

But that was _tooclosetoDad_, tucked away in the back bedroom.

Dean hovers anxiously near the armrest, like he's trying to decide if he should sit down. Sam stretches his ever-lengthening legs over it, territorially.

Annoyance flickers briefly across his brother's face before he squares his jaw and straightens his shoulders, bending over the TV until a faint picture jumps to life.

Sulu cackles insanely, darting across the screen brandishing a sword.

_Star Trek re-run. The Naked Time. _

Sam opens his mouth to protest as Dean cranks the volume up, the headache that had been pressing at his temples during the run now threatening to burst forward. He just wants to sleep, forget.

Dean glances toward the bedroom as the wall reverberates from whatever heavy object John has within reach. He hustles back to the couch, still bent at the waist, shivering.

"It's gonna be okay, Sammy," he whispers heavily into his brother's ear. "I can fix this."

_No, you can't. _Sam curls into a ball, pressing his face into the dank cushion. _Please just let me be. _

A warm hand touches his back, fingers curling and uncurling in a slow, gentle scratching motion. A pause. Then he feels a single point of pressure tracing a deliberate pattern across the surface.

Dean sketching letters along his spine. A game they used to play when they were kids, cooped up in the backseat for hours on end.

_See if you can guess what I'm writing!_

I-G-O-T-I-T. One of the oldest jokes they shared. _I got your back. Literally. _

Sam's shoulders begin to shake and Dean moves his hand to the boy's head. His chest is tightening, fueled by the restless anxiety instilled in him at an early age. _People are dying. Can't slow down, can't stop now. _

"I've been doing a lot of thinking lately about what you said and uh," he coughs "you were right. I am afraid of-" Dean scrubs furiously at his eyes, mumbling "My job is to protect you. So we're busting out of here, buddy. Just gonna make a few calls. I got contacts of my own, see? They can help us so Dad doesn't…" he trails off, scrutinizing Sam for a reply.

The youngest gasps, digging his fingers into the couch, the indentation creating miniature canyons in the fabric.

He finally lifts his head, red streaks running down his face. His eyes hold a wild hope, too fragile to be spoken aloud.

"We can leave tomorrow night. Everything's gonna work out, I promise."

Sam takes a deep breath. More like the tremulous gasp of a diver coming up for air, and nods.

They boys sit in silence for a while, each trying to regain control, preparing a face to wear in John's presence.

* * *

Sam is made of porcelain and glass. His whole world hangs on a brittle string and if he lets go he will shatter into a thousand pieces.

Dean's feverish promises still reverberate through him, creating tiny cracks along his foundation.

_Can we get away with it? _

He's in the kitchen right now, whispering urgently into the phone.

_Will it even make a difference?_

Sam feels a touch of his old cynical steel returning, glazing over this newfound fragility. _Things will never be alright. Running away's like putting a band-aid on a severed leg. _But then Dean emerges, a fresh sheen of sweat on his forehead, eyes glittering with triumph.

"We're all set. Remember Duke Evans? Dad and I worked a case with him a few years back. I sorta saved his life after a black dog tore into his femoral, so I'd say he owes me one."

Sam has a faint recollection of slicked-back hair, a lopsided grin, and twangy banjo music.

"Can we trust him?" Suspicion twists under his skin. _It's too easy; we can't just leave there-are-always-consequences-Sammy. _

"Of course." Dean's face is so earnest and naked with faith that Sam is instantly filled with doubt, picking at his insides.

_He looks at Dad like that. Well, he used too. _

"C'mon we'd better finish with training, and then, uhh pack. I bet he'll be passed out by then." Dean is full of manic energy, bouncing on the balls of his feet, twisting his shirt in his hands. He's speaking way too fast, his eyes darting from the bedroom to the door. It's like the secret is alive inside of him.

In contrast, Sam feels heavy; like he's in a room and all the walls are closing in, slowly but surely. His skin is too tight, the edges of the wounds pulling taught and bristling with every movement. He lowers himself to the ground for push-ups and crunches, grateful for the physicality, the feel of muscles straining to distract him.

John appears at the threshold of the living room, grasping the frame with swollen and battered hands. He nods curtly at the boys, indicating that the training should continue, and makes his way to the freezer for some ice. Concern flashes darkly in Dean's eyes.

_Don't even think about it. How he'll be all alone after we leave. How you won't be there with a glass of water and a bottle of aspirin. What if he drinks himself unconscious on the Anniversary again this year, or gets torn up real bad on a hunt? _

Sam's watching him now with a shrewd, pensive gaze. The corners of his mouth curl down in a small, grim frown. He can sense weakness.

Dean knows he's the tenuous link between the two warring Winchester factions. That in choosing Sam, he's abandoning his father, leaving his to stew in own pain and self-loathing. But the scars on Sam's arms speak for themselves. He has to get out, and hell if Dean's going to let him go alone.

_So help me God, I can't back down now._

* * *

The night air is feverish and silent as Sam and Dean slip through the front door, flinching simultaneously as it bangs softly against the frame. The itchy restlessness has grown, until Sam can feel it burrowing under his skin like a living thing. Dean's jumpy too, dropping the keys to the Impala and cursing under his breath at the clatter that seems to echo from every corner of the parking lot. The motel stays silent and black, its empty windows staring like accusing eyes as the boys start the engine with bated breath and inch backwards.

Dean grips the steering wheel with the clammy hands of a corpse, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. _Goodbye. _

Sam slouches down, drawing the hood of his sweatshirt over his eyes. His wrists throb in time with his heartbeat. _Good riddance. _

Two boys, an old Chevy, and a broken down motel sit frozen in the moonlight. It shines off the blacktop, preserving the scene in a silvery capsule. A full moon. Harbinger of werewolves, blood sacrifices, and witchcraft. A bad moon.

Only a snaggle-toothed cat is witness to the sleek black car slinking off into the night, its headlights shining like twin beacons as the wheels swallow down the miles.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N:** One more chapter after this! Thanks to everyone who's reviewed so far- I live off all that delicious feedback ;D

* * *

John feels it tickling at the base of his skull. Right, he imagines, where the brain stem lies. The regulator of breathing and heartbeat and necessary functions for living. _Something is wrong. _It's not the slow, awful ache of a hangover, or even the crick he gets in his neck from sleeping hunched over a book. _Something is very, very wrong. _

One of the first things a hunter learns is to trust his instincts, or he winds up dead. John's eyes fly open at the same time he swings his feet up and over the armrest of the couch, where he'd crashed the night before. A hazy dawn greets him with sluggish heat. The kitchen is exactly as it was left the night before-neat and tidy. _Dean even remembered to wash and put away the dishes this time._

The sensation is still worming its way uncomfortably down John's spine. He listens intently for the sound of rustling sheets and sleepy mumblings, but all he can hear is a single lonely cicada.

"Boys?"

It's exploding now, tearing through his nerves like it did fifteen years ago, when he heard a scream from the top of the stairs. He races down the hall, half-tripping on a stack of newspapers he'd left next to the dining room table for further research. The door's hinges cry out in protest, but he has to hurry. _It's here I can feel it he's here he's taking them too._

The beds are empty; faded sheets tucked in sharp and exact on Dean's, rolled into a ball at the foot on Sam's. John's eyes flick instinctively up to the ceiling, where a dark water stain lurks; sending unholy shivers down his spine.

_Gone. _

For a hot minute he's shocked, sagging against the frame in disbelief. Then anger rushes in, sure as the tide.

_My car-_

Sure enough, she's gone too. Along with the boys' clothes and a few hundred dollars from their emergency stash. There's a hastily scrawled note on the kitchen table, letters floating outside the lines like it was written in the dark. Dean's blocky handwriting is unmistakable.

_Dad,_

_I'm taking Sammy and we're leaving. I'm sorry but this life is killing him and you can't see it. Maybe it's because he won't let you, maybe not. But you always said it was my job to protect him, so that's what I gotta do. I hope we'll see you again on the flipside. Please don't come looking for us. _

_Dean_

_PS. There's some leftover casserole in the fridge. _

The note falls from a slack fist. It rests crumpled on the floor as heavy boots stomp in and out, accompanied by a constant stream of cursing. Finally, the front door slams and all is dark.

* * *

Dean decides it's best to leave the bulk of their belongings in the car, taking only a change of clothes and a few toiletries. To his surprise, Sam leaves his backpack behind. Ever since he can remember, Sam's made his own summer reading lists, insisting on "continuing his education" in the downtime. Sam notices him staring and thrusts out his lower jaw defiantly. Dean knows well enough to leave it alone.

Instead of the jovial greeting and a slap on the back that Dean is expecting, he's met with a brief nod and a sidelong glance as Duke ushers the boys into the house.

"Listen man, I'm really glad you could-"

"I called Bobby Singer," Duke interjects, waving his hand briefly to point out the ancient kitchen, complete with rusty sink.

Dean groans inwardly; the old man was nice, but the fewer people involved in this, the better. Beside him Sam stiffens, almost coming to a complete stop.

"He said I should drag your asses back to your father before the shit really started to hit the fan."

"You don't understand! He'll-" Dean hates how he can hear the panic in his voice.

"I told him to stick it where the sun don't shine," Duke assures him calmly. "Bathroom's on the left, by the way." He leads them down a narrow corridor, past a cramped bedroom and what Dean assumes to be the library, judging from the smell of damp paper and whisky that permeates the air.

"But he did insist I bring you over to his place first thing in the morning." Sam inhales; a sharp hiss that their host doesn't seem to notice.

"Now you boys are up there," he gestures to a staircase crouched precariously in an alcove, "first door on the right. Now don't go poking around the other rooms too much, alright? There's some sensitive stuff lying around, if you know what I mean."

_Cursed objects. _"Sure do. We'll uhh see you tomorrow then." The stairs groan under his weight.

Sam shuffles along behind him, looking over his shoulder at Duke's retreating back.

The room, with fresh sheets and mold free curtains, is a-ok in Dean's book. The bed's a double but it's not like they haven't dealt with that before. There's even a dreamcatcher nailed haphazardly to the doorframe. _Bet it really works too. _

Sam flops on the bed, springs squeaking harmonically as he rolls over on his side. He's even paler than he was in the car, his eyes growing huge and dark.

"I guess we're screwed then, huh?" He whispers harshly.

"What are you talking about?"

"Oh c'mon Dean, don't play dumb. Bobby? He's like, Dad's only friend. It isn't a matter of _if _he's going to rat us out, it's a matter of _when._" Sam pulls his knees up to his chest and begins picking mulishly at his bandages. "It's not like this was gonna work out anyways. I appreciate the effort, honestly I do, but," he's talking like the time he got his tonsils removed and he could barely swallow ice chips- a raw, dehydrated sound that grates across his vocal cords. "I don't want to be a burden. You shouldn't have to choose between me and Dad in the first place."

"Damnit, I'm not giving up on you!"

"Just please-"

"No. You're going to listen. All my life, my one purpose has been to keep you alive and kicking, alright? Call me 'Daddy's Little Soldier' all you want but really I was 'Daddy's Free Babysitter'. And I friggin loved it, ok? Even more than ganking demons or chasing girls." _Or Dad himself._

"So don't talk about all this suicide crap because I don't think I can-" he swallows thickly, hating himself for how selfish he sounds, how weak and scared, but the truth is pouring out of him like blood from a wound and there's nothing he can really do but sit back and watch it stain his clothes, hope it stops before it's too late.

"I'm nobody without you. I know that's fucked up, but I'm big brother first, Dean second. That's just the way it is." He feels his knees weaken humiliatingly and he quickly sits down next to Sam. He's just watching with those solemn eyes of his that seek to take in everything but rarely give anything in return.

If Sammy leaves, he'll be dust.

"I don't want you to be alone," his younger brother says finally, "but I don't know if I can get better. I just want it to _stop_." He quickly brings his thumb up to his mouth and bites down hard on the nail, a nervous habit he's been trying to break for years.

"Yeah, I know." Dean leans back against the headboard, letting the silence settle into the hole that's cracking open under his ribcage. _And I'm going to prove you wrong. _

"I'm going to sleep now." Sam turns away, though his erect shoulders and stiff limbs indicate that he won't be sleeping anytime soon.

"Ok." _I'll watch over you._

* * *

Light is filtering weakly into the room and Sam realizes he must have fallen asleep. _Tomorrow's here. _His limbs grow leaden at the thought; so heavy he can feel himself sinking down through the bed, the mattress and floor parting viscously to let him past. He falls down, down into the basement, and further; rocks and roots grasping at him, tugging his hair. He can feel the center of the Earth waiting for him, radiating warmth and beating like a heartbeat, calling his name in a voice that throbbed deep in his bones. _Sam, Sam, Sam_

"Sam!" Dean's eyes peer into his, brows knitted together ever so slightly in concern. "Geez, I've been calling you for five freaking minutes. Duke wants us on the road." He hops nimbly off the bed, grabbing a handful of clothing and shoving it in Sam's general direction. "Eggs and bacon on the stove," he calls over his shoulder as he bounds towards the stairs. "Hurry up!"

_Right. Bobby. _

Sam reaches half-heartedly for a t-shirt, another one of Dean's hand-me-downs that will soon be too small for him. He can smell the strange musk of his brother's cologne and for a horrible second he feels like he's slipping into someone else's ill-fitting skin.

_I'm not like you, Dean. I'm not like anyone. _

His brother had loved visiting Bobby, spending his days prowling around the scrapyard, conquering the ladies of Sioux Falls one by one.

Sam still remembers the way the old man had watched him out of the corner of his eye, followed him nonchalantly from room to room, pretending he was looking for a certain text or getting another beer. Still remembers the scraps of hushed conversation overheard in the dead of night when his father had finally returned.

_I don't know John, seems like a normal kid if you ask me. Real polite too, don't know where he gets it between you and that hellion brother of his. _

_I saw what that thing did to him._

_Well maybe you dodged a bullet here, ever think of that? _

More whispers, in registers too low to hear. The next morning, Bobby had winced when he hugged him goodbye, as if his very touch could corrupt.

Maybe it could. Maybe it spread poisonous tentacles, slowly sucking the life out of the Winchester family tree. First Mary lost to the flames, then John to revenge. Now Dean was all he had left and he was strangling him too, entwined in a sickly embrace, their branches would wither together.

Fully dressed, Sam sits listening to his brother clomp around downstairs, his excitement manifesting as nervous energy.

_I'm sorry I'm hurting you I'm sorry I'm hurting dad I'm sorry I hurt mom. _Over and over, a mantra playing out his entire life. It beats in his ears, thick and sticky as blood.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N:** This is it, folks! The culmination of many months' work (yes I'm slow shhh. I was also really picky about word choice because I wanted to keep the same poetic feel through the fic). At first, I hadn't intended to post the story because I thought it was a little too dark, a little too unnerving. Fortunately my beta (and friend!) Mikey convinced me otherwise, as has the support of all you readers! (In particular LauraEP18 and MysteryMachden- I definitely notice when people review more than once!) Anyhow, you guys all give me the warm fuzzies.

I wish you a happy holiday season, and I apologize if I break any hearts- tissue warning ahead.

* * *

_What have you done now, you stupid sonovabitch? _ Bobby opens the door with a clatter and a sigh, allowing John Winchester to spill into the mudroom. The man has bags dark as bruises under his eyes and the slight tremor running through his fingertips indicates that he's been driving booze-less all night. _For better or for worse. _

"Boys are gone," he grunts, leaning on the doorjamb for support. On closer examination, Bobby notices a thin shred of paper poking out of John's balled fist. _So Dean really did find the courage to up and run- Duke wasn't pulling my leg. Looks like this is gonna be a mighty fine shit show._

Bobby scrubs both hands along the back of his neck; watching the light filter in through grimy windows and dust motes swirl, disturbed by the new arrival.

"I know, John."

The man looks up, the paleness around his cheeks slowly flushing red. His brows knit together like storm clouds rolling in.

"What did you say?" His voice is smooth, like the surface of lake that hides sharp rocks on a deceptively shallow bottom.

"Duke Evans called me last night he-"

"I'll kill that bastard!" John slams his fist violently into the doorjamb, making the glass rattle in the windowpane. He turns to leave but Bobby grabs his arm, wincing as the other man wrenches around in his grip.

_Stay calm Singer. _"Aww hell, why don't you come inside and have a beer and we can talk this over like sensible folks," Bobby keeps his tone light, inwardly praying that John doesn't decide to go tearing down to Duke's place and plug him full of holes.

John eyes him unsteadily, his breathing harsh as he works to see around the blinding rage.

"One beer," he grits out, shaking Bobby's hand loose and moving past him in a single motion. He doesn't bother to take his boots off.

Bobby sighs and rubs his fingers in a slow, circular motion around his temples. _I've got about an hour to talk some sense into him before his boys get here and he does something even more stupid. If that idjit Evans hadn't gone along with their harebrained scheme, I wouldn't be in this mess. _

_Why didn't you call me first, Dean? _He knew the look in John's eyes, had seen it on more than one occasion in his father's. _I could've helped you before it got this bad. _

Bobby steps heavily through the hallway after John, who has already disappeared into the kitchen. He hears the refrigerator hum, followed by the soft _clink_ of bottles. He passes one of the many telephones he keeps scattered about the house for emergency hunting business and considers giving Duke a ring, let him know what the boys were walking into but decides against it. _For all I know he'd send 'em off to some other poor sap dumb enough willing to risk getting his ass killed by John Winchester. Better I round up the whole gang and sit 'em down for a goddamn family intervention before this mess gets any more out of hand. _

* * *

Sam's fingers tap out a staccato rhythm on the Impala's door handle and it takes all of Dean's self-control not to reach over and snap them off.

_He's just nervous, that's all. Thinks Bobby might blow our cover. _

"Dude, I'm serious. We can turn on the radio or whatever but if you keep that up I'm gonna throw you out on our ass."

Sam stops, surprised. He looks at his fingers bemusedly, as if he hadn't realized what he'd been doing.

"Sorry," he mutters, and scoots around so that he's facing the window.

"It'll be fine, Sammy," Dean intones once again, addressing the curvature of his back. "Bobby knows a lot of folks. I bet Dad's never even heard of half of 'em. He can hook us up somewhere nice and far away where we can stay until things cool down. Once you get back on your feet and Dad gets his head out of his ass, then we can start over and things'll be better. You'll see."

He gets no response, other than Sam curling in on himself a little more.

Dean cracks a window, letting the sting of pure, early-morning air hit his lungs. _Better than coffee. _He sits up a little straighter, loosening his grip on the steering wheel until one hand slides down into his lap. _This is how it should be. Me and Sam against the world. Nothing can stop us now. _

He tries to ignore the tug of half-buried memories. Damp hands clutching his shirt, a tearstained voice rumbling in his ear _You boys are all I've got now_, the smell of smoke, a sticky glass, whisky kisses on his forehead.

Singer Salvage is beginning to come into view, its jagged roof piercing the South Dakota sky like a mesa.

He shoves Sam out of the passenger seat, ignoring his muffled protests, and grabs the bags out of the back.

Sam drags his feet in the dirt. Head down, he looks for all the world like a man going to his execution. Dean claps him on the shoulder, simultaneously shoving a duffle bag in his hands. "Cheer up. Today is the first day of the rest of our lives and all that. Maybe Bobby'll even give you a beer."

He takes the steps two at a time, nerves suddenly starting to swirl in his stomach. _Bobby drives that ratty old pickup. Who owns the Ford we parked next to? _Dean's standing on the porch, one hand raised to knock when all hell breaks loose.

* * *

"What the hell are you getting at, Singer?" John pushes away the empty bottle and leans both elbows on the table, running his hands through his hair. The lack of sleep is catching up to him and words are swirling in the air like all that damned dust and all he really wants to know is where he can get his hands on Duke Evans and wring his skinny little neck.

"Look, what I'm trying to say is," Bobby clears his throat and takes a swig to fortify himself before continuing, "Maybe you need to cut those boys some slack this time. Yeah, I know they went off and done something completely boneheaded but ya need to make them understand _why_."

John laughs, a short humorless bark. "You think I haven't been drilling that shit into their heads since Dean was four years old? He should know better than that! He's gonna get Sam killed or… taken. I've seen signs Bobby. I think the demon blood's starting to manifest."

John sees doubt flash in Bobby's eyes before he turns his back and busies himself pretending to arrange the contents of his cupboards.

_I know you don't believe me, Singer, but there's something dark in him that I can't explain. _

Bobby sighs wearily and keeps his back turned. "Have ya ever considered the fact that maybe it's because Sam's a teenager and maybe he's a little bit more like his stubborn old man than Dean is and you're just getting pissy because he don't want to listen to you anymore?"

"If anyone else but you had said that, I'da kicked their ass," John growls. _I can sense it Bobby; I know to trust my own goddamn instinct. This is so much more that a teenage hissy fit. And so much worse. _

"Spare me the posturing, Winchester," Bobby is facing him now, his arms spread placating. "All I'm asking is that you keep that hot head of yours in check. Listen, for once."

John's eyes narrow, suspicion rising. "What's that supposed to mean? Are you a part of this?" _I swear to God, if you've been keeping me from my boys…_

"Dammit can't you see something's broken here?"

"Yeah, I can. That demon broke our family a long time ago, and if we EVER want to fix things, then we gotta hunt it down and kill it before the bastard gets to Sam. And if you think you're going to get in my way, well-"

At that moment a low, familiar rumble sounds out in the yard. Car doors slam, low indistinct voices. John leaps for the front door with Bobby calling fruitlessly after him.

John tries to stay calm, because niggling in the back of his brain is some basic instinct that agrees with Bobby. A little worm wriggling into his consciousness out of the mire of anger and suspicion that recognizes the hurt in the way Dean holds his shoulders, or the fear behind Sam's defiance.

_The demon's not the only thing that goes bump in the night, Johnny. You haunt their dreams too. _

For a minute, he can breathe and relax his fists, approach the screen with shaky dignity.

But then he sees Dean, duffle bag swung jauntily over his shoulder and a cocky grin plastered on his face. _Stuff your orders where the sun don't shine_ it says. _Sammy loves me more, he's ALWAYS loved me more and there's nothing you can do about it now, you stupid dick. _

Everything is crashing down around him, like the ceiling did fifteen years ago. Dean's mouth opens in a small "O" of surprise and his bag drops to the porch with a thud that John can't hear.

The world fades to static and red heat.

* * *

Sam only has a split-second to react. He grabs Dean's hand, stiff and frozen like a corpse and yanks him down the steps. A strangled roar echoes behind them and Sam can almost feel his father's hot breath on the back of his neck.

_gettothecar_

Bobby's yelling something after them but the blood is too loud in Sam's ears, pulsing and pounding as his heart strains to keep up.

_IknewitIknewitIknewit_

The betrayal rises in him, thick and viscous as bile. His hands skate along the door handle as Dean fumbles, white-lipped, for the lock.

Fingers grasp his throat and his vision shrinks to pinpricks. A voice buzzes in his ear. There's an impact behind him, a sudden rush of pressure and Sam's thrown forward, collapsing against the car.

John's on the ground, holding the side of his face in shock and Dean is standing over him, crying, and Bobby's running towards them, waving his arms like a madman. Words flow from his lips like water but Sam knows only the grating pain in his throat and the glimmer of keys lying forgotten in the dirt.

John's pushing himself up, surprise darkening into wrath and Sam knows they haven't got much time. He grabs the keys and yanks open the door, shoving Dean roughly into the driver's seat.

"Don't' you dare-" _Dad_

"Drive!" _Bobby_

Time is still moving funny, cutting in and out, fits and starts. John and Bobby are thrashing around on the edge of his vision. The passenger side seems miles away, gravel turning to broken glass under his feet. The engine jumps to life and the Impala swallows Sam up, purring like a living thing.

Dean's hands are shaking so badly he can barely hold the wheel, but he backs out in an unsteady semi-circle, leaving shrieking tire treads in his wake.

Sam chances a glance in the rearview mirror. Can see Bobby sprawled in the dust, still waving his hands at them. _Go._ John's got himself half folded into an ugly yellow Ford, mouthing furiously.

_We can never be safe. _

Sam can feel the Impala crumpling around him like a tin can, pressing and squeezing until he can't breathe.

* * *

"God." The word explodes from Dean's mouth in a whoosh of exhaled air. Tears are drying crustily on his face and he swallows convulsively, trying not to throw up.

"Sammy, I-" _Ohgodohfuck I punched dad. _

"He's still coming. Drive faster." Sam keeps his voice toneless, discouraging any further conversation.

_He doesn't want to hear your sorries or your promises anymore. _

Dean stares at the road without really seeing it. The knuckles on his right hand are oozing blood.

A slow, creeping finality presses into his gut.

"If we're gonna do this, we're gonna do it right and we're gonna do it together."

Sam nods grimly, his eyes shining.

He reaches out and takes Dean's free hand, squeezing his fingers like he used to do after he woke up from a nightmare.

They'd been connected all their lives. A simple, instinctive bond that allowed them to work without speaking on a hunt, like well-oiled gears. Dean can feel it magnify, so that every breath, every heartbeat is synchronized. They are united by one common goal. _Like we should be. _

Dean yanks the steering wheel hard to the left.

* * *

Red and blue alternate in a lurid parody of a carnival, illuminating twisted metal parts spilling out like organs across the road.

A hollow, ragged keening floats across the flat, North Dakota terrain. A man is crouched in a ball, arms clasped around his middle as if it will help him contain the agony. He rocks back on his heels and cries out again.

The tree has been reduced to a mess of splinters and broken limbs. Paramedics clip away diligently, in stolid silence. There is no need to hurry.

The driver rests half in and half out of the vehicle, his torso caught in the crooked teeth of a broken windshield. His hand rests palm down on the smoking hood in an almost apologetic gesture.

The other boy lies spread-eagle on the pavement, torn from the car by the force of the collision. His cloudy eyes stare at the sky and a faint smile plays on his lips.

_Amen_.


End file.
